I will lose no time in answering your letter, for I was highly
delighted to meet so kind a notice from a poet so distinguished as
yourself; and if it be vanity to acknowledge it, it is, I hope, a
vanity of too honest a nature to be ashamed of--at least I think so,
and always shall. But your question almost makes me feel ashamed to
own to the extent of the falsehood I committed; and yet I will not
double it by adding a repetition of the offence. I must confess to
you that the poem is mine, and that the book from whence it was
pretended to have been transcribed has no existence (that I know of)
but in my invention of the title. And now that I have confessed to
the crime, I will give you the reasons for committing it. I have long
had a fondness for the poetry of the time of Elizabeth, though I have
never had any means of meeting with it, farther than in the confined
channels of Ritson's 'English Songs,' Ellis's 'Specimens,' and
Walton's 'Angler;' and the winter before last, though amidst a severe
illness, I set about writing a series of verses, in their manner, as
well as I could, which I intended to pass off under their names,
though some whom I professed to imitate I had never seen. As I am no
judge of my own verses, whether they are good or bad, I wished to
have the opinion of some one on whom I could rely; and as I was told
you were the editor of the 'Iris,' I ventured to send the first thing
to you, with many 'doubts and fears.' I was happily astonished to see
its favourable reception. Since then I have written several others in
the same style, some of which have been published; one in Hone's
'Everyday Book,' on 'Death' under the name of Marvell, and some
others in the 'European Magazine;' 'Thoughts in a Churchyard,' the
'Gipsy's Song,' and a 'Farewell to Love.' The first was intended for
Sir Henry Wootton; the next for Tom Davies; the last for Sir John
Harrington. The last thing I did in these forgeries was an 'Address
to Milton,' the poet, under the name of Davenant. And as your kind
opinion was the first and the last I ever met with from a poet to
pursue these vagaries or shadows of other days, I will venture to
transcribe them here for the 'Iris,' should they be deemed as worthy
of it as the first were by your judgment, for my own is nothing: I
should have acknowledged their kind reception [sooner] had I not
waited for the publication of my new poems, 'The Shepherd's
Calendar,' which was in the press then, where it has been ever since,
as I wish, at its coming, to beg your acceptance of a copy, with the
other volumes already published, as I am emboldened now to think they
will be kindly received, and not be deemed intrusive, as one commonly
fears while offering such trifles to strangers. I shall also be very
glad of the opportunity in proving myself ready to serve you in your
present undertaking; and could I light on an old poem that would be
worth your attention, 300 or even 1,000 lines, would be no objection
against my writing it out; but I do assure you I would not make a
forgery for such a thing, though I suppose now you would suspect me;
for I consider in such company it would be a crime, where blossoms
are collected to decorate the 'Fountain of Truth.' But I will end,
for I get very sleepy and very unintelligible.